Bubble

What is it you want?

Is it something I can give you?

Is either question even relevant?

I read yesterday that some Nascar driver died at 41, an illness equally sudden and effective…

Like a tsunami.

I am two years younger than my grandfather when he died…suddenly.

I am not supposed to be contemplating the mysteries of life, though, I’m supposed to be reinforcing a brand:

I write books. There’s one of sale. Here’s the link.

This is America, everyone likes a winner, do you enjoy my bleached teeth when I smile like a shark?

In two hours I walk out my door, leave my apartment for another ten or eleven hours.

Why the fuck are you here?

No, I’m glad, I just hope you’ll stay—

My blog viewings have dropped from maybe twenty views to the single digits.

I’ve probably sold three copies of the latest book in five months—

I’m not complaining, I’m just contemplating the pointlessness or possible pointlessness of….this.

The reality is that less and less people read; 

What I am the most skilled at is an anachronism.

Instead of books people like to watch videos—

I could make a movie, but that’s just part of the issue:

There is so much content, so much noise….

It’s like you’re a bubble in a vast ocean—how do you stand out from all the other bubbles?

Whether you’re made of soap or crushed diamonds, it doesn’t matter.

Just one bubble among billions upon billions.

I think about mortality a lot—

When you get past fifty you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

My best friend has Lewy’s Body Dementia—

Ten months younger than me, never smoked a cigarette, drank in sub moderation, was a vegan—

Genetics. Fucking genetics.

I’ve got the blueprint for my grandfather’s heart in me.

It’s a design that will probably kill me someday, hopefully doing something fun.

I’m stressed out; I’ve known what I was supposed to do since I was a teenager—

But I still have to leave here to go to a straightjob in two hours.

But you don’t want to hear that:

You want to learn how to find love, how to operate the knife sharpener you bought off Amazon, to be reassured the loneliness you feel will end, how to dispose of a body—

You’re looking for the address of someone you never stopped loving, looking for hope, looking for a distraction from the shitshow that is modern life—

I can give you maybe two of these things.

Personally, every day I’m a heartbeat away from saying fuck it and just…disappearing.

Sell the car, buy a van and just…roam.

But I’d be worst than broke in several months and I’d have to find another job so—

In two hours, I get dressed and go to work.

And I’ll pass you, as you look into your phone, seeking distraction, seeking the key to what the fuck ever will solve your problems—

How to get in on the cryptocurrency game. Five traits that will make you attractive to people.

How to draw people to your bubble.

Ads will pop up, you will mutter in impatience until you can click on the ’Skip’ button.

Perhaps you’re about to hit the ’Skip’ button on whatever this is.

Take a deep breath, blow one bubble away so ten others can take its place.

I finished the second memoir a few days ago. It will come out in July.

I have no idea what to work on next.

I can create bubble number twenty but unless I have a solid plan of how to draw you to it—

Utterly. Fucking. Meaningless.

I can create it, but the sad truth it will just be another unread manuscript that will be thrown out when I die.

I can record another song, same situation.

But I’m supposed to be selling you something, aren’t it?

The problem is, I have no idea how to reach you…

I’m just a bubble drifting deeper.

Pushed by currents, circling with billions of other bubbles...